behind fleeting breath
by Cicci Green
Summary: <html><head></head>She is no more than a slave to a most loyal house. How can it end well when all is lost? A Voldemort Wins AU.</html>
1. Chapter 1

_I've wanted to write an AU where Voldemort wins for quite a long time. It's almost finished, so I'll try posting it._

_Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. It is all the property of JK Rowling or of others otherwise stated. _

...

_The flesh surrendered, cancelled,_

_The bodiless begun;_

_Two worlds, like audiences, disperse _

_And leave the soul alone._

_- Emily Dickinson_

...

They were dead.

Every. Last. One.

Hermione was sure of it.

As she lay on the ground, looking up at the low, dingy ceiling, she mentally recited the list of names. She had started it a long time ago. How long, she did not know, because there wasn't any way to mark the passing of time in here.

But she had started after the first death. Dumbledore's.

And as months went by and the world got darker, the list grew.

Bill Weasley.

Mad-Eye Moody.

Fred and George. (They had gone together, Fred only a few minutes after George. They came into this world together and so they had left it.)

The entire order had grieved after that. Headquarters (wherever they were situated at the time) had lost some of its light. No one laughed at night any more, or tried to ease the tension with jokes or pranks.

Hagrid.

Minerva McGonagall, as proud and fierce in death as she had been in life. A true Lioness, until the end.

And others, so many others.

...

After their defeat (she refused to think of it as Harry's death) the sprit had gone out of the Order. The Dark Lord had won. Even in her mind she dared not call him by his true name. She had learned quickly that such small fights were futile.

The Order became the Rebellion, and a small and pitiful rebellion it was. She didn't hear much about it, prisoner as she was, but it was still out there, she knew. She had to know.

When she was captured, it was almost a relief. She thought she would be killed, but it seemed they thought she might still be useful to them. And she was a prize.

The Dark Lord reminded her of the Muggle psychology books her parents used to send her, to help her keep in touch with her heritage. (the notion almost made her chuckle now.) In that last happy year, they had, unknowing of the danger their daughter was in, sent her books about Muggle serial killers. She had learned that they kept trophies of their victims, to remind them of their... exploits.

The Dark Lord hadn't been able to keep his greatest trophy. She was glad for it. But everyone and everything else he kept.

She had been put on display at first, to shatter the sprits of the Rebellion and to feed the conquerors' pride and self-importance.

The step from trophy to prisoner was not so great. She had betrayed the Rebellion, of course. Everyone did in the end. She did not doubt she had caused many deaths and hastened the inevitable. At least she was not the only one.

Most were still alive. The wizarding population was not so large it could take the losses of more than half of its people, dirty blood or no. And the Purebloods had to be served by _someone._

The cells next to hers emptied one after the other. Slaves were given out as rewards to begin with. She brandished her famous intellect and knew it was only the start. With no ties to bind him, the Dark Lord would undoubtedly turn to richer pickings among the Muggles. Nothing like power to further degenerate an already degenerated mind.

She could do nothing but wait for her turn. So she stared up at the ceiling and recited her list, over and over.

...

_**behind fleeting breath**__ is greatly inspired by the works __**of Emily Dickinson**__. Poems at the beginning of chapters are by her, unless otherwise stated. The title is also from one of her poems. I have a list of other inspirations I will post when the fic is finished._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for reading, reviewing or adding me on alert! I forgot to add warnings last time._

_**Disclaimer:**__ see chapter one_

_**Warnings:**__ dark subject matter, genocide, violence, rape, sexual situations_

…

_It burned me in the night, _

_It blistered in my dream; _

_It sickened fresh upon my sight _

_With every morning's beam. _

…

She had not lost all feeling after all. When she was younger, and more innocent, she had imagined that one became numb in the end. That one could not suffer too many horrendous things and still feel... Anything.

She was wrong. When they came for her, she felt afraid.

When they put her in heavy chains and snapped a thin silver collar around her neck, she felt that her bones might melt, so bad was the weakness.

They threw her to the ground in front of the Dark Lord who spoke to his Death Eaters. She refused to listen and shut her ears and started intently at the floor in front of her. She made no move to get up. The only sign that she was still alive was the slow movements of her chest as she breathed and her eyelids as she blinked.

When a pair of boots came into her view, she knew she had been claimed. She saw the long, gleaming white blond hair of Lucius Malfoy and felt him grip her wrists tightly and draw her to her feet.

"Thank you, Mylord. My family and I are not worthy to serve you." With an elaborate bow, he turned his face towards Hermione and used one hand to thrust her away from him. She stumbled but remained on her feet with her eyes on the ground. She could feel his gaze on her dirty face and ruined clothes.

"She certainly isn't much to look at, but one can hardly expect that from a Mudblood." The crowd laughed, as Lucius Malfoy had undoubtedly meant them to do.

"But she will be of use to us. As her kind were meant to be used." She felt, rather than saw the leer.

He bowed again, excused himself and dragged her by one arm from the room. Outside, in a great entrance hall decorated ostentatiously with gold and marble, he stopped and smiled cruelly at her.

"We're going home, girl. My son will be most… excited to see you. He has been longing for your company. "

Hermione said nothing. The silver collar was starting to chafe her neck and she wanted to scratch and rip and claw at it.

They apparated into what she presumed were Malfoy Manor. He left her in the care of a pair of old, downtrodden house-elves, dressed in dirty rags with a parting promise of calling on her later.

She used all the self-control she had learned over the last years to wipe all traces of emotion from her face so he wouldn't see her weep . When the house-elves lead her into a bathroom and told her to clean herself up in a large tub filled with cold water, she finally allowed the tears to fall, hidden by the water dripping from her drenched hair.

When she had first been captured, they had shaved her hair. When it had started to grow back, it was in small tight coils that stood out around her head in a mockery of a halo. Though she had never been a particular vain girl, she had always taken pride in looking neat and tidy. Strangely enough, what had bothered her the most during her captivity was the inability to pluck her eyebrows. Like her hair, they grew bushy and untamable without proper care. She knew that if she saw her face in a mirror now, she would hardly look like herself. But there was no mirror in the small bathroom, only a tub, the two house-elves, a sink and Hermione herself.

Mirror or no, with her curls and body clean, she felt more human than she had done in a very long time. Even her old tattered clothes, remnants of pristine Hogwarts robes, had been taken away. Presumably, the Malfoys didn't want her to contaminate their furniture more than she would already do.

Before she could ask for new ones, the house-elves that have been watching her bathe, took her to a small chamber beyond the kitchen, filled only with a narrow cot and without windows. A worn robe lay on the foot of the cot. It was hardly more than a sack, but she shrugged it on gratefully for the stone floor was cold. It fitted badly and she shivered despite the extra layer.

The elves (she still didn't know their names) then showed her the kitchen, the cupboards and the magical slate where a name and location would be shown if anyone in the family was wishful of any services.

She was to clean the second and third floor rooms, keep up the fireplaces, return washed laundry and serve at meals if so asked. The elves were cold to her, but not unfriendly. Hermione noticed, with something of her school-girl innocence, that their backs were crooked and their hands and feet scarred and knotted. These wretched creatures were hardly alive. She knew that once upon a time, a long time ago, a lifetime away, she would have pitied them. Her heart would have ached for these broken beings.

But not anymore. She had learned the hard way that caring brought only pain.

The elves continued to talk, but she hardly registered the words, the day seemed to go on and on and she felt it must have been an eternity since she was dragged from her cell. She wanted it all to stop, to just lie down and sleep. Only the female elf's last words shook her from the pleasant sensation of non-caring.

"…takes you there now."

Blinking, unprepared, Hermione allowed the elf to lead her away and up the stairs. She was no longer numb, fear was coiling in her stomach. When the heavy mahogany door slammed behind her and she saw the firelight gleam in Lucius Malfoy's hair and eyes, she wanted to scream.

She tried to struggle at first, mindless with fear, but the first fist stopped her effectively

…

_Thank you. Please help me correct any errors.  
><em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to those who read this story. It now has a banner, see my profile for the link. _

. . .

_Heaven knows what dangers we'll be facing all adrift and so alone_

She didn't see Malfoy junior for the first time until after quite a few days, when the bruises had all but faded and she could move without gasping in pain.

And even then, she only saw him from afar. She was struggling down the stairs with a heavy bucket with water and a mop when she heard the front door slam and someone enter with heavy, deliberate steps. She stopped dead on the stairs, her arms aching from the work, and the water bucket in her hands almost spilled. She saw his shadow before she saw him and drew back, hoping he wouldn't come her way. Something about him, someone she had gone to school with, battled wills and minds with, and, if she was to be frank, had always bested, something about seeing him, on the winning side, would make _it_ all too real.

As it was now, she could pretend it was all some sort of evil dream, created by the adults who were supposed to be protecting her.

A twisted nightmare, operating on a nightmare's principles and logic.

But if she was to see him, it would suddenly not be a nightmare but reality. More real than the bruises and bloody scratches on her body, or the lingering weakness and trembling from her time in captivity.

Luck is in her favor though, and he did not go up the stairs, but entered what she had dubbed the smoking room on the first floor. With a sigh, Hermione took her mop and bucket and continued on with her duties.

. . .

"Granger."

Malfoy's voice stopped her in her tracks, but Hermione didn't turn around.

"Granger!" His voice was harsher this time, but it was not a shout. Slowly, very slowly, as if her every move was choreographed by a great puppeteer, she turned. She even looked him in the eye.

The same cruel smirk he had had since he was eleven marred his features. He had obviously done well for himself since the fall… Since the Dark Lord's takeover. What had been boyish good looks had matured into a handsome man, but Hermione couldn't appreciate them. She looked at his hands, and saw for a second blood staining them. She blinked, and it was gone.

Malfoy didn't say anything at first, just looked her over. His gaze raked over her short hair, unsightly robe and dirty limbs. Hermione resisted an urge to rub her face to remove the ash and dirt.

"Mudblood, I require your services. My rooms need a more through going-over than they have been getting lately." He grinned without mirth. "You know how useless house-elves are." She ground her teeth together at the jab.

"I expect you to come to me everyday after you're done downstairs. Otherwise, I will punish you." He had acquired more self-control than he had had at school. The threat was uttered as calmly as if he had offered her a cup of tea. It left her with no doubt as to its sincerity.

She pressed her lips together and nodded jerkily, then made to leave.

"Stop."

"You seem to have forgotten something, _mudblood._" The grin again. "Bow before your master." That she would not do.

Never.

His face twisted into an ugly snarl. "Do it!" His wand appeared in his hands in a flash and he lifted it as if to cast a curse… And waited, wand raised.

A second went by, two, three…

He raised his eyebrows in a question, and Hermione bit her lip, and quickly bowed her head.

_Crack!_

She flinched as the silent curse hit the floor just in front of her, and left shattered stone in its wake.

His eyebrows were still raised and a mocking gleam had entered his eyes. He lifted the tip of his wand slightly, and Hermione understood. She had been the smartest witch of her generation after all.

In a move that felt more degrading than her entire captivity, she sank to her knees. Desperately, she missed her long hair and the way it would have concealed her face in such a submissive position.

She kept her eyes on the floor as he came up to her and patted her hair like one might a favorite pet dog.

Even long after he was gone, she remained on her knees, unable to muster the energy to get up.

. . .

_Quote is from the English version of Kristina från Duvemåla. _

_Please review. _


	4. Chapter 4

_In this game we are both players, so there is no game. There is nothing to gain, and there is nothing to lose... yet somehow I feel as if I have lost._

HPHPHP_  
><em>

He read the paper every day when she entered his chambers.

At first, she tried to at least glance at the headlines, desperate for the written words, but he caught her at it and charmed his paper so it only showed smiling pictures of Gilderoy Lockhart, and waving the paper at her mockingly every time she sees him.

Working in such close proximity to him was by far the most demeaning thing she had been subjected to. He wasted no chance to mock her, making her polish his shoes ir scrub his floor on her hands and knees.

One day, he asked her to file his nails, and she could barely bite back a sharp retort about his pansy ways. It galled her, to sit there, on a small stool by his feet, holding his hand in hers, making him _pretty._ She didn't dare protest; she has learned that such small revolts are not worth the price she must pay for them.

So she rebelled in the only way available to her. She was silent. Indifferent. (or so she hoped.) He wanted her reactions and her emotions, and she will not give them to him, again.

He was not deliberately cruel, however. He was not violent again. Perhaps he realized that she had because numb to violence. His mocking eyes and insulting tasks were far more effective than any number of fists and boots.

She got far more of that from her other _master. _Even in her mind, she shuddered and refused to think of it. Her limbs ached and her stomach twisted at the thought.

HPHPHP

After a while, life at Malfoy Manor settled into a routine. She got used to the work, the demands and the humiliation, as she had gotten used to captivity. As one apparently could get used to anything. She did her best to remain aloof and closed off and after a while, all Malfoys became accustomed to their quiet Mudblood slave. She even tried to plot and wonder at the rebellion's efforts, but the thoughts slid away from her like water in a sieve.

One afternoon, the house was empty. She knew she had her chance. She crept down the hallway and opened the second-to-last door on the left. Thousands upon thousands of books surrounded her. For the first time since their defeat her heart filled with joy. She wondered briefly if one was allowed to feel this happy when one's entire world was gone.

She didn't dare to take any books of the shelves. Instead she wandered, reading each title with care, taking in the words, letting them soothe her mind.

She didn't hear him come in, didn't notice him until his fingers closed around her bicep.

Malfoy gripped her forearm tightly and drew her closer.

"What the hell are you _doing, _Granger?!" The words were hissed at her, whistling through his clenched teeth.

She was too shocked to react at first then, with more strength than she knew she possessed she tugged it from his grip and ran. Only when she reached her room did she realize that she couldn't hear footsteps following her. Her heartbeat drummed in her ear and matched the pounding in her arm. Red marks in the shape of a man's hand were already darkening into bruises.

HPHPHP

He started asking her questions after the library incident. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of questions, about the rebellion, her parents, Hogwarts and worst of all, about Harry and Ron. She refused to answer at first, but after he made he stand in the corner of his room for hours without moving, she locked herself behind thicker walls and answered them as matter-of-factly as she could.

She broke one day, in the end. As he asked her question after question, in his bored, detached voice, she suddenly couldn't stand it anymore. She threw the polishing cloth down and rose sharply, striding towards him, stopping very close to him. He sat in his customary armchair, reading his damned paper, and looked up at her, once, briefly, then back down again.

"I never cried." It was the first information she had ever volunteered.

Malfoy stared at the paper in his hand but didn't look up at her.

"I didn't cry for any of them. We couldn't bury them. I never said farewell. _That_ was the only thing I could to do remember and honor them."

He looked up then, eyes meeting hers, and she shivered because there was something black and alien and _human _in his grey gaze. For a second, it was there, then his eyes shuttered and his face was cruel as he studied her matter hair and ripped cloths.

"If you're trying to honor them, Mudblood, I'd say you're doing a piss-poor job of it."

He looked speculative for a second, then waved his paper at her.

"Get out. I can't stand the sight of you."

HPHPHP

He started calling for her at all hours. She wondered when he slept, because she certainly never saw him use the large, soft bed in his bedroom. He got owls too, messages he was careful to hide from her.

Once he dressed in black, tight-fitting clothing and apparated out, only returning when the first light of dawn was touching the garden.

She also saw him exiting the library, tucking a folded piece of paper into the inner pocket of his jacket. He didn't comment on it and she, as she was wont to do, said nothing.

HPHPHP

Hermione was dusting his room when he entered in his usual manner. He wasn't violent and slammed the door open like his father, nor was he quiet and dangerous like Snape had been in his glory days. He simply strode into the room like he owned it and expected everyone to turn their attention to him.

She didn't.

She simply went on wiping the dust on the small nightstand, holding the books that had been lying on it in one hand.

"Strip for me."

She looked up at him, eyes wide, unsure if she had understood him correctly. He had never asked for anything sexual from her before.

"We can do this the hard way or the easy way, but you know you will do it in the end, Granger, " he drawled and leaned against the doorframe. Still, she didn't move.

Hermione wanted to deny the truth of his words but she couldn't. It was impossible not to give in.

"Do it!" he said and his voice was sharper. She lamely put the books down on the nightstand and took a step back. He walked across the room and sat down in the couch by the window and motioned her towards him. She hesitated but saw his raised eyebrow and knew she couldn't fight.

He leaned back, arms stretched out across the back of the couch, legs spread comfortably apart and a smirk marring his handsome features. Watching her.

She didn't stand there and just looked at him with dead eyes like she would have wanted; instead she fidgeted, shifting her weight from one foot to another, looking anywhere but at him. The fabric of her dress itched and she lifted her hand to scratch it.

His mouth twitched with impatience, and she lifted her hands to the buttons in front and slowly unbuttoned them, one by one. The fabric started slipping down her narrow shoulders and she closed her eyes as she grabbed it and pulled it off. She wore no underwear. No need for mudbloods.

She stood naked in front of him, and she could feel herself blushing, red spreading across her face, neck and chest. Hermione had thought she was passed such bourgeois feelings, but apparently not. His gaze slid up and down her body appraisingly.

"Pretty," he said, as one might about a moderately interesting painting.

"Come here, Mudblood." He pointed at the floor in front of him.

It seemed to take her an age to walk the eleven steps to him. Even longer to kneel, bile sour in her mouth at the thought of what was to happen.

Strong fingers gripped her chin, and then his mouth was pressed against hers and she was unprepared. Her lips parted, and his tongue slipped between them, ravaging. He bit her lower lip hard and the taste of her blood mingled with his saliva.

He tangled his hand in her growing hair and tugged. She gasped and then his other hand is pressing into her cheeks and she was sure it was going to leave bruises.

He went on kissing her for a good long while. His hands groped her breasts and it hurt, but he made no move to do anything more.

Suddenly, he thrust her from him and she landed hard on her back on the expensive oriental carpet. He got up, picked up her dress from the floor and roughly pulled her up as well, putting the dress on her with sharp movements.

Gripping her left arm tightly, Malfoy dragged her to the door, but stopped before it, tugging his shirt open and untucking it from his trousers. He listened for a moment, then threw the door open and pushed her out, stepping after her and leaning against the doorframe.

"Pleasure, mudblood. I always enjoy it," he smirked.

Hermione heard the laughs, and there were Lucius Malfoy, Rosier and Avery, leering at her. Her hands flew to her gaping collar, and she stumbled away through the hallway.

Sitting on her cot later, she wondered about the purpose of it all.


End file.
